


Lean On Me (When You’re Not Strong)

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Not Dark, Possibly Unrequited Love, Promise, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Mitch has an oddly therapeutic way of coping with his slumps.





	Lean On Me (When You’re Not Strong)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote something nice for once. Kinda. I'm still mean to Mitch though so if you like that well, do I have something for you.
> 
> Not Beta'd; just been writing scraps here and there so expect a few errors.

_ Ancaster _

Mitch goes missing for an optional practice, not an uncommon sight, except it comes packaged with an ambiguous text coupled with directions to Hamilton, a good forty minutes out of town. Quirky would be one word to pair Mitch lately, especially as his chances became more often than not double-edged swords that cut him when his shots missed and the crowd booed. He took it harder than the typical player, that was Mitch first and foremost. A sense of parental instinct stirred inside of him, still questioning why Mitch was outside of the downtown parameters but much too run-down to start speculating. His best guess was to go out and find him.

His on-road navigational system pointedly directed him at a lonely community centre, fit with a pool and gymnasium as well as a rink. The surrounding area was bleak and uninteresting, with not a single living creature settled on the well-manicured grass nor the acres of pavement that circled the ginormous building. Beyond the dented minivans and lampposts that more resembles bent scrap metal because of the year’s worth of rain swamping them was the picture-perfect countryside that put him face-to-face with his childhood.

There, like a holographic trading card glimmered Mitch’s cherry-red Corvette. It was parked out back by the dumpsters where the mounds of snow and ice shavings made a peak in the landscaping, piling on the already tall raked up leaves. The sloppy parking job pit the windshield up against the debris avalanching down from said mounds, some already dragging the wipers six-feet under a cold, dark grave.

It answered a few of his suspicions but unyielded many more, and stepping inside the frigid building that reminded him of being trapped inside a meat locker. It was void of entertainment, only housing a few family members that were sitting cross-legged or curled around a barstool looking in from outside. As of then, the smudged manual doors that opened up the rink were semi-locked, encapsulating the lone zamboni making rounds. Above them, the fluorescent lights’ emotionless nature slurped all signs of life out from inside, bearing down with a rapture of white that saturated the entire room.

 

One or two people resided inside of the glass cage, one of them Mitch. Alone, he could be fashioned as a member of the janitorial staff or better yet, an assistant coach, but his well-used hoodie looped around his shoulders wasn’t fooling Auston. Many times he’d leave the guest’s bathroom with soaped up hands and find Mitch nesting in a duvet and his specialty hoodie given as a handout in his final junior year. The red racing stripe down the side was distinguished, to say the least.

He feared having to ask one of the attendants to unlock the door so he waited out the zamboni and skipped in with the parents and shot up the gum-kissed stairs. Mitch, in all his otherworldly wisdom, chose to sit not by the aisle and was as smug as a fox in a chicken’s coop, buttering up the middle seats with a Gatorade bottle filling the empty cup holder to his right. The one-sided grin was all for appearances though, Auston could see how the apples of his cheeks dipped and the flick of his eyebrows when they twitched, yearning to clip over the sunny expression.

The man was pulled and drawn like a cheese string, not even exerting the energy to acknowledge Auston had driven for an hour and only moving his cup and belongings aside. Auston plunked himself down beside him with a narrow-minded grunt, crossing one leg over his right thigh and leaning back onto the cold biting plastic of the backrest. The turtle-shell-texture could probably snap his spine in two, but he was willing to forego comfort to get a minute or two with Mitch.

“I like coming here,” Mitch started with a bit of a hustle underlining his voice. “It’s everything and nothing like playing in the big leagues where you’re trying so hard to survive. It’s nice to go back in time and just breathe.”

“Never took you for the philosophical type,” Auston said.

A mixture of eloquence and dumbfounded-likeness caked Mitch’s next words, harmonizing with how his face was blank and thin-lipped. “I’m not, I just wish I had a time machine. You never really appreciate everything between peewees and juniors until you’re saddled up with media training and let out to divide and conquer.” Mitch’s arms opened up to the ice like the wingspan of a sparrow ready to catch wind and fly. He did so just as the box across the ice welcomed a handful of four-feet tall players cloaked in yellow and green memorabilia. 

“Whatever you say, buddy.” He took a long sip out of the thermos he’d made the God-given decision to swipe. The cold coffee he chugged settled in the pit of his stomach and hardened into a rock until his gut ached.

The following quiet let them both delve into their own thought processes, working out the kinks that had knotted in their relationship until it was a strain. However tame, it was no coincidence Mitch was running high tempers. To say something and make a dispute was dancing with the devil, and it wouldn't be a tango.

The coach below them huffed on his whistle, collecting his players in a close-knit huddle. Their closeness only made Auston further resent the offish game Mitch was conducting. Without an explanation there was nothing he could do to help, just cluck and scatter like a no-headed chicken.

He waited out a few minutes of mutual armistice before giving in and giving Mitch his full, uninterrupted attention.

“I’ll never understand you.” Mitch’s head turned on a swivel, casting a tame look in his general direction. “You could go anywhere in Toronto but you come here.”

Mitch didn’t miss a beat. “I like the anonymity, I like the kids.”

“But seven in the evening, that’s what I’m really concerned about.”

“Less people,” Mitch hummed, slick as honey, “less push and shove. Feels kinda ethereal, like being in a bowling alley at night and smelling chill dogs and old popcorn.”

In a fit of ignorance, Auston slapped a hand on Mitch's forehead as if to check his temperature. “Okay, now you got me really worried.”

He didn't anticipate Mitch's head to falter, fumbling down until it’d found its respective home on the slab that was Auston's shoulder. The bluntness dried up the salivary glands in Auston's mouth lickety-split; someone had pressed pause on the recorder in his head and time stopped. Down beneath, the players buzzed like a swarm of flies, like black stars on a putrid white sky. The pulsing heartbeat on his arm was like a video playing in the back of his head when he was trying to study; his attention was flimsy at best.

They sat there, sunbathing in the pre-pubescent laughter that bounced off the high rafters and how it made their skin tingle. Auston wasn’t brave enough to try and interfere with whatever they had; he liked the unpredictability and more so loved knowing that Mitch was capable of leaning on him in times of need.

Throughout the duration of their stay Auston only left once to use the bathroom--seeing as how he hadn’t pissed once on the way there and had chugged a few coffees earlier that morning as his makeshift wake-up call--and visit the local snack hut to buy them two hot chocolates to drink until their toes buzzed like a honeybee hive.

Mitch interlaced their fingers as they walked to their respective vehicles and said nothing. It was the concluding statement to an already complicated evening and he wasn’t looking forward to the drive home, yet, he didn’t care as much. He should’ve, because he was about to turn the car’s ignition and make notes about stopping for gas when Mitch strolled on by and pressed an open palm up against the driver’s window, only leaving when Auston reciprocated.

 

_ Durand _

Something very personal had transpired between them but Mitch appeared reluctant to talk about it. Auston had shared a part of his life he’d kept very personal and as a result, awkwardness ensued. Nothing magically got better either; during a game against New Jersey a deflection gone bad put Marner’s name up on the scoreboards for the absolute wrong reasons and the implosion on Twitter likely outsped the speed of light itself.

He’d become very rooted in Mitch’s personal transfections and therefore, the loss was like rubbing raw skin and he almost expected the text to come through. Again, the city was out of town and unnecessarily foreign but he was nothing but a good friend. Besides, the only thing on the agenda for that evening was to recline back in his armchair and de-stress. A road trip blasting bad rap music and hip-hop as he massaged the steering wheel with his calloused palms did as much clerical healing as a downtown yoga session with half the effort.

This time, it wasn’t a downtrodden community centre but a recreational hall with its own claim to fame, hosting a variety of framed images depicting hockey legends and their early days circling the blue line and goal posts in their first pair of skates. It had the opposite effect; instead of coming off as homely or presenting a feel-good vibe Auston was sent back to the Scotiabank arena desperate enough to eat his own stick tape because the crowds were chanting his name.

Mitch was not by the vending machine but neither was he out by the stands. Not exactly the worst course of action; hockey families had flocked to watch their children and shout at the top of their lungs for their kids to do things they could never do and feed that sense of fulfillment. They’d easily be recognized and so he delved into his inherent ability to hide and walked upstairs to the viewing stands. Mitch was sitting at the empty bar there, drinking water out of a solo cup with a pasty look on his face.

Saying nothing, Auston resumed his place by his side. He expected no conversation for at least ten minutes until he needed another bathroom break or made an excuse to pay an atrocious three dollars for a small bag of pretzels.

“I’ve given up so much,” Mitch interfered only a minute after they were seated. “I don’t want to lose it all.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Auston said in tandem. Mitch’s grip tightened until the plastic boundary holding the cup straight caved in and left finger-shaped holes.

“It’s like last year, but  _ worse _ . My ass is on the line. It’s me or Willy, and if I don’t start producing soon, well-”

“Shut up,” Auston said, because his mother always told him grovelling in your self-bought pity party with your stylish cups and napkins was no way to address your problems. “You know you’re wrong. We need you just as much as ever.”

Mitch didn’t appear inclined to add to the explanation nor dispute it. The little glass jars that were his eyes got rounder and were dappled with a quiet wetness, a secret to only themselves.

“It’s easy for you to say.”

“It is,” Auston replied. “Last year, I was decimated after Boston. We’re sinking in this ship together; either you paddle or we drown. Now get over here,” he opened his arms up like an accordion. Mitch didn’t waste a heartbeat’s worth of time and jumped on in.

Auston liked knowing Mitch enjoyed a good cuddle. Some guys were tough nuts to crack, needing a good yelling showdown or simple cry on the shoulder to improve their mood. Not like they would ever admit that though. Mitch dressed in the emperor’s clothes and didn’t try to be something he wasn’t, so they didn’t have to play a game of Simon says. Auston could lay back and smell Mitch’s fresh laundry detergent and be happy knowing he could give Mitch something his self-esteem could not.

They broke long before he knew the both of them would be satisfied but that was fine. He could reel his hand out as they walked past the men’s bathrooms and Mitch would take it, returning his gesture with a squish that felt up the joints in Auston’s hand.

 

_ Gage Hamilton _

January was the killer, partially because of winter’s obscurity combined with the festivities. He was plum-tuckered out before the tenth and they had only one game to their name in the new season. Mitch, on the other hand, was still in recovery. He looked skinnier by the day and ran himself ragged in practice until his legs were shaking like a fawn’s.

He shouldn’t have had to work himself to the bone to feel validated but that was what it’d come to. Even something as harmless as going out with the team for a round of drinks was scrutinized and picked apart until a text later in the evening denying it with a pleasant round of excuses conjured up online. Mitch’s new cat must’ve thrown up fifty hairballs in the span of a month to be justifying all the last minute veterinary appointments.

It wasn’t Mitch but Auston that continued the tradition of weekend night hockey scouting, taking his sweet time investigating the local attendances so they wouldn’t be caught with their pants down in public with no explanation. In the end, he cherry-picked a nice local place with good reviews lacking much buzz in the area to blow their cover. Seeing as how he was more inclined to not waste Mitch’s (and his) time, he didn’t wait until he was seated to send the text and did so on the way there, receiving a simple line when in the drive-through line for a double-double coffee.

_ K. _

Eloquent of Mitch; the lack of obnoxious smiley faces or drawn-out vowels was worrying though. It was the kind of text you got from a pissed off ex-partner but a close teammate but then again, Mitch was still working off steam. Getting moved down to the fourth line and pointedly clipping himself on the net mid-overtime was not something to scoff at. It did wonders at slicing a neat little hole in one’s confidence and leaving behind shards of rubble.

The outside of the building was a sad concrete, complete with a washed out yellow colour that made his eyes sting. Giant green trash dumpsters flocked around the outside and pressed in, taking up valuable parking spots and leaving scrambling parents to park in the designated handicapped spots, truck wheels knee-deep in snow clumps. Behind them was a lonely street with a strip mall gutted from the inside out, leaving a scrappy advertising block to show off the cobwebs and broken-down cardboard boxes.

The spectator seating inside left something to be desired and the plastic sculpture bit into his biceps with fury. He didn’t get to wallow over it long through, Mitch was spot-on in trudging in, kicking the slush off of his boots and plunking down beside Auston. There wasn’t even anyone using the rink; the ticket-booth operator was half-asleep when they walked in, leading him to believe no one would be around for another hour or so.

The difference it made was monumental. There was nothing to direct his attention to when the first of many awkward pitfalls dropped down and delved a wedge between them. Their knees knocked together as they bounced but it made little difference in helping dissolve the hurt that frothed between them like an angry dog.

“It’s not your fault,” was all he could muster but his voice was like a litre of coke shook one too many times, the flat texture making him wince. “You’re a great player.”

“I know I am,” Mitch said with a glimpse of distaste on the seat of his tongue, “everyone says that. But I’m not that, or at least I’m not showing it.”

Mitch couldn’t help himself, his head made a delicate little spin that kept his bangs flat against his skull. The innards of his eyes were shimmering. “I don’t want to leave Toronto, Auston,” he said. 

His timid little wobbles made him look like an orphaned kitten combined with the hair dangling near the nape like a bird’s nest. Only one word in the dictionary fit: miserable.

Auston had grown accustomed to having Mitch open and wanting love. He couldn’t withhold his eagerness to open himself up and maneuver Mitch onto him so that he could wrap his arms around his stocky little body. No bloody cameras would be able to dig out the staple in the heart, the mark Mitch had left on him. It’d been a small little pint before but now he was starving for more.

It was wrong to want to wish hatred onto Mitch for his own benefit but they lived in a world where any scrap or morsel of affection was dissected and turned against them. He wanted to take the earnings for running his own little slice of charity and hold them close to his chest. In a way, he was. It was so real and warm and Mitch was quietly hiding his sobs in his marked up, calloused palms and it was just the two of them. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“I blew it,” Mitch whined. “The kids have nothing and I have everything and I can’t even play.”

“You’ll play,” Auston replied like the tone of a metronome, ”even better than before even. Just like last year. I believe in you. We all do. Fuck the guys saying we’ll even think about trading someone so talented.” Other synonyms and words sat unused in his gums. Lovely. Passionate. Adoring. All of it and more; he’d rip open a dictionary and spill the vocabulary from his own lovesick alphabet.

Mitch sniffled and said nothing. Together they marinated in their sad little tune until families did trickle in from the beat up roads. They had to break up then and when one of the janitors did recognize them from behind Auston wanted to cry himself. Mitch was as delicate as a pair of clipped butterfly wings in his hands; the single most touch would unravel and split him. Yet, Mitch was the one putting on a beaming smile as he escorted both him and Auston out to the parking lot where they split their ways.

Maybe if they were closer Auston would demand Mitch ride home with him. It was too bad that their vehicles couldn’t be left abandoned lest they be towed. He couldn’t say anything, much less admit he wanted to kidnap MItch and take him to his complex where he could burrito-wrap him in blankets until he was steaming and then spoon-feed him hot chocolate like his mother would whenever he got the blues as a kid. 

It, unfortunately, wasn’t a problem he could resolve himself. Fate’s red string was the only parking ticket to a better future. He would don his skates and trademark jersey the next night and do with all the grace of a lordship, then spend the remainder of practice looking over his shoulder as Mitch missed the net time and time again.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking


End file.
